Doctor Doctor
by Pikeru's Angel
Summary: Just saying now, it isn't actually Eleven. It's Twelve. In which John turns out to not be what he appears and Sherlock is surprised. Drinking game inside! Yes, you can substitute with a non-alcoholic drink.


**Doctor Doctor drinking game: Take a drink whenever there's a reference to ye olde Sherlock Holmes or past Dodctor's.  
Take a drink when there's a reference to a movie martin Freeman was in.  
Take a drink whenever the authoress can't decide what to call John/Twelve.  
Take a drink whenever the word "time" is used.  
Take a drink whenever a posotive adjective is used to describe the TARDIS.  
Take a drink whenever the authoress takes liberties with the characters.  
Take a drink whenever the Amy and Rory are mentioned.  
Take a drink whenever you enjoy a line. ;)**

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He remembered his past lives.

Of course he did! He was The Doctor. Every single life he'd lived -all eleven of them- he remembered with perfect clarity. He remembered Amy Pond (who actually lived near his new home, but she didn't know that) and Rory Williams-Pond. He had great memories of Martha Jones, whom was similar to who he now was, in a way. Donna Nobel… Oh, she had been the spice of life then. And Rose Tyler, he would never forget her for as long as he lived. He remembered every single nemesis he had faced (Weeping Angels, Daleks, Cybermen… The list went on), every person he'd met on his travels.

He never thought he'd meet people again in different timelines.

Okay, let's backtrack. After Amy and Rory, he'd been re-generated. Doctor number twelve. He had sandy blond hair, soft hazel eyes, and his shoulder hurt like hell. He couldn't walk without limping, which was odd because that didn't hurt, and there was a tremor in his right hand. All odd, all new. He also had the odd urge to strip himself of the tweed jacket, the fez, and even the very cool bowtie, and but on a nice, striped jumper. And then there was the new teeth. Oh, could never get used to the new teeth. It was always so odd talking with new teeth. Always seemed harder to form the words.

So, with the universe relatively safe and with a new plethora of problems that would prevent him from doing what he did properly, he made a new identity for himself. London, twenty-first century, of course. It had always been his favorite time and place. He was Doctor John Watson now, after the great man he'd met in the last eighteenth century. He faked his gay sister, Harriet, and the parents were dead. He enlisted in the army after clearing all his papers into every database he could think of (including a subscription list to "BBC History Magazine").

Despite his pacifist nature, it was surprisingly easy. His limp went away, the shoulder pain wasn't as noticeable, and the tremor left too. And as long as he was protecting people, it wasn't that hard.

When he was shot in the same shoulder he had the pain in and sent home, he was bored. Nothing happened to him anymore! To top it off, the limp was back and so was the tremor! The therapist he had said it was PTSD. Of course, the Doctor had seen far worse, and he's had the problems before, but he didn't argue. Arguments led to bad things.

His personality had completely changed, of course. He didn't feel like the mad genius he used to be. No, now he was almost normal. Or at least he thought he was normal. Normal, boring, used to be the Doctor John Watson.

In a fit of absolute "shoot-me-now" boredom, he'd gone off to see Amy. She wouldn't recognize him in this body, of course, but he knew she remembered him. How could she forget her "Raggedy Doctor"? But then he ran into someone. Someone from the medical school he'd gone to last minute as a precaution.

Mike Stamford.

Mike had always been a rather large fellow, with a good sense of humor that was almost contagious. The Doctor (and he really was having trouble not introducing himself by that now) had mentioned how he was looking for a flat, but who would want to share a flat with a boring bloke like him? When Mike -good ole Mike- mentioned someone at the hospital he worked at who had said the same thing, and off to Bart's they went.

When the Doctor (_John Watson_) had met the dark haired, blue-ish grey eyed madman who had deduced everything about who he now was in barely a moment, he was reminded of Holmes. Ah, Holmes. He'd been a good man. A very good man, in fact. He honestly wished the consulting detective had gone with him when he left, but that was six Doctor's ago. Much too late to change it now.

Before John (_The Doctor!_) even knew what was happening, this strange bloke was suggesting they be flat mates. He protested, saying they knew nothing about each other when Sherlock went and explained his deductions. And the Doctor (_John!_) had stared, gaping slightly, when this odd, dark haired man had left.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." And he winked, and he left, and the Doctor (_Oh, make up your mind!_) was still staring about a minute later.

Sherlock Holmes? That Sherlock Holmes? Impossible! Well, not really. There was always the cracks in the wall that once were. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and the rest of the lot must have been sucked in. Never existed. And now time was trying to right itself again. Which, really, was quite good, but incredibly confusing on occasion.

So John (_there we go…_) went, and moved in, and wrote two cases and really couldn't write up the third until they were both out of the hospital and he had the time to do so. It was odd, being able to get hurt like he did now, but he dealt with it. This new, calmer, adrenaline seeking personality was useful at times.

Roughly two weeks after The Great Game (as he'd titled it in his blog), they'd been able to return to 221B. And John being what John used to be, told Sherlock he had to go see Harry in person and tell her he was all right. Instead of doing that despite the fact that he did need to, he went to check on the TARDIS. It was over by Amy's apartment with Rory -whom he had eventually been able to visit and they understood why he couldn't really keep much contact. It was still new and old looking and the bluest blue he had ever seen in his life. His lovely lady. The one that really kept him together through the countless years.

Quickly and quietly and with the biggest grin he'd ever had on this new face, he rushed in, keeping the door open should either of the Pond's happen to come home. It was just as wonderfully amazing as he remembered it. And his sonic screwdriver was still by the assortment of blue buttons. He grabbed it quickly, stuffing it in his pocket.

"Oh, beautiful, I missed you!" He said, turning excitedly around as he walked in. The TARDIS almost seemed to thrum in agreement. "I'm sorry, hon, but I can't go anywhere. I'm a bit tethered down now." And instrument to his left made a high-pitched sound. "No, no. I'm just kind of permanently here now!" He tried to right himself. "I've got papers and a flat mate now. He'll be suspicious if I come back too early or several years too late. Might even be worried about me, but I doubt it." The one on his left stopped, but small tube to his right made a sound almost like a sigh.

"I'm assuming you sister isn't here." The mildly amazed voice suddenly cut through the air, and John whirled around. There, right in front of him, was Sherlock. The consulting detective's eyes were wide, and his voice seemed… odd. "Something you not telling me, John?"

John blinked, and reacted the only way he knew how. "What do you think? Go ahead and comment, I've heard them all."

"This…" Sherlock said, going around the control panel. "This is amazing. Who, exactly, are you?"

A shrug. "I was kind of expecting you to say it was bigger on the inside, everyone does. But then, your you." He grinned. "I'm the Doctor. Well, obviously I'm _a_ doctor, but the name I'd made for myself is _the_ Doctor. But, of course, you know me as John Watson. Oh, and this is the TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. Can go anywhere and any when in the universe, but I don't think you want to see the moon's of Babylon seven. Kind of boring, really."

The younger (_much _younger) man blinked. "So you -what?- a time traveler who finally found some roots?"

John opened his mouth a few times before closing, trying to pick the best answer. "One, I'm a Time Lord, not time traveler. Well, I'm both, but mostly Time Lord. Two, my roots are on Gallifrey, but I like earth better." He grinned, his smile a bit wide for the John Watson Sherlock knew. But then, the Doctor had had to keep his personality a bit toned down. Not all that calm and normality came naturally, after all.

"You look human…"

"Uh, no." Now that was a topic that always got him a bit peeved. "You look Time Lord. We came first. Actually, we came first to everything."

"Ah." A pause, and Sherlock closely examined bright, threatening red button that clearly stated, "Do not Press!" "When were you planning on telling me?"

"When you were on you deathbed and I still looked thirty seemed like a good time." The much older man said. "I've lived for a very long time, and I don't age. I'm kind of wondering if this is my final change and I'm human now. I only have one heart now." He almost sounded disappointed. "But there are still a few wondering should out there that will carry on what I'm doing. I think."

Slight backtrack. "You mean you had more than one heart?"

"Oh yeah. Two of 'em. No kidney's either, so the little buggers are annoying."

"How old are you?" Sherlock asked curiously, examining his friend like blood under a microscope. John's brow furrowed, trying to remember through time travel muddle just how old he actually was.

"Seven hundred forty-two, I think. Middle aged, by my standards." He winced slightly, grabbing his sonic screwdriver, and put it up to Sherlock's temple.

"I'm really, really sorry." He said sincerely, watching Sherlock's eyes widen in fear. "But I've gotta wipe you memory of this. I will tell you about this again, I promise. I'll tell you about every little adventure I've ever had, and I'll introduce you to Amy and Rory next Thursday, but for now you've got to stay ignorant about the TARDIS and Time Lords and all that other stuff." He pressed the button, and Sherlock passed out in his arms.

"If it's any consolation," John said quietly, dragging his friend from that magnificent blue police box. "I don't want to, but it could mess with the time stream even more than it has by you existing."

So he got Sherlock in the cab, and they headed back to 221B. And the next Thursday, he called up Amy and Rory, and told them there was someone they'd want to meet.

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**A/N: Ha ha! This was _so_ much fun! No, I am not planning on writing a "Sherlock meets Rory and Amy" fic, but someone else can if they want.**

**I hope this made sense. It made sense in my head, but my head doesn't usually make sense sooo... Yeah. Oh, and I don't know if Time Lord's don't have kidney's. They have two hearts, that's canon, but I'm taking liberties with his kidney's. And before I get questions on, yes, he's human now. He will grow old and eventually die. Oh no! *gasp* Although in my head Amy and Rory have a kid who ends up a Time Lord after Amy had a drunken night with Eleven. ;) Just so you know, that was actually a prompt.**

**~Piki :B**


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